Her Gallant Captain at Waterloo

by Diane Gaston

  She was alarmed. ‘I will be back directly.’

  She rushed out of the room, down the long hallway and the stairs. She reached the lobby just as Rhys was about to climb the staircase.

  He caught her arm. ‘What is wrong?’ His voice was gruff.

  She shrugged him off. ‘Where is the hall servant?’ The man was not at his post. ‘I need to speak to him.’

  ‘Tell me what is wrong,’ he insisted.

  His hand gripped her arm again. She ought to be angry at his heavy-handed interference, but she was too concerned about Wilson. ‘Wilson is burning with fever. I must get help. He needs a doctor.’

  ‘Wait here,’ he commanded.

  But she followed him back to the dining hall where he commandeered the help of one of the servants, instructing him in French.

  The man nodded and cried, ‘Tout de suite, Capitaine.’ He dashed off.

  Rhys turned to her. ‘He will bring the doctor. Where is Wilson? I will attend to him.’

  ‘He needs something to drink.’ She looked around the dining room for another servant. When one appeared, Rhys took charge again, instructing the man to prepare a tray with small beer, bread, tea and some kind of broth. When the man returned with the tray, Rhys took it from him. ‘Je vais le porter.’

  ‘Oui, Capitaine.’ The servant bowed.

  Helene reached for the tray. ‘I’ll bring it to him, Rhys.’ He was so brusque, so unlike the Rhys she used to know.

  He held on to the tray and his voice turned firm. ‘I will carry it.’

  She was too worried about Wilson to argue. She led Rhys up the stairs and down the long hallway to Wilson’s room, knocking briefly before opening the door.

  ‘It is Lady Helene again, Wilson,’ she said.

  The older man tried to rise.

  Rhys set the tray down on a table beside the cot and came to Wilson’s side. ‘I am here, as well, Wilson,’ he said in a caring voice more like she remembered. ‘Rhys Landon. Remember me?’ He urged the man back into bed.

  ‘Rhys, my boy. You are back.’ The old servant attempted a smile. ‘Back with m’lady.’

  Wilson was a little delirious. Rhys was here, but not back with her.

  She, too, approached the bed. ‘We’ve sent for a doctor for you. But you must drink something.’ She glanced at Rhys. ‘Can you help him to sit up?’

  ‘No need to fuss over me, Lady Helene,’ Wilson protested.

  Rhys eased Wilson to a sitting position with a gentleness that reminded Helene of the old Rhys, the boy who rescued injured birds and rabbits and once even a hedgehog they’d named Henry. Helene had helped Rhys collect insects and berries to feed him.

  But Rhys now was a man commanding enough to control a tavern full of rowdy soldiers and strong enough to carry David through the streets of Brussels and up the stairway to his room. She’d once seen this harder, tougher Rhys long ago when they’d been children. Some village boys pushed her around and pulled her hair. Rhys ran in and fought them all, even though it was three against one. After that he taught her how to fight like a boy, in case he wasn’t around to come to her aid.

  Helene stuffed the pillow and an extra blanket behind Wilson to help him sit, vowing to bring him more pillows so that he might sleep upright and breathe better. Rhys brought the one wooden chair in the room next to the bed and gestured for her to sit.

  She pulled the tray closer. ‘I am going to feed you some broth, Wilson.’ She spooned the liquid into his mouth.

  The old man cooperated, swallowing the broth and making satisfied, but unintelligible sounds. She got him to consume the whole bowl and a few sips of the small beer, as well. The man’s eyes grew heavy then and he dropped off to sleep.

  She placed her palm against Wilson’s forehead and glanced at Rhys. ‘He still is very hot.’

  He nodded. ‘He has aged these five years, but I can only see him as he was, strong as an oak.

  ‘Scolding us half the time.’ She smiled inwardly at the memory.

  An ache of nostalgia filled her chest. When she’d been with Rhys, she’d really had an idyllic childhood. It was only after he left her that life became bleak.

  Rhys presumed she would be married by now, but how could she have married? True, her father had financed a couple of Seasons, but the young—and not so young—men who’d been thrown in her path could never compare to Rhys. She’d rebuffed any of their attempts to court her. Her father had been livid. He’d threatened to disown her and toss her out on the streets, but she knew he would never risk the censure of his peers if he’d done so. Instead he put all his hopes and energies in poor young David, hammering lessons on his role as Earl some day. Who knew David would need those lessons so soon?

  But David had shown no signs he was ready to grow up. She needed to help her brother accept his role or their family estate, their workers, their village, would all suffer.

  She slid a glance towards Rhys, his expression full of concern for Wilson. ‘Are you at liberty to stay with him for a few minutes? I should not like him to be alone if the doctor arrives, and I want to let David know Wilson is ill.’

  His eyes hardened again when answering her. ‘I will stay with him.’

  She nodded in acknowledgement. Could he not at least be civil?

  She left the room and made her way to David’s room. She knocked.

  ‘Who is it?’ he said from behind the closed door.

  ‘Helene.’ She half feared he would not open it for her.

  But he did open it and she entered the room, which was a great deal messier than the previous night. Clothes were strewn on chairs. His stockings were scattered on the floor.

  She held her tongue about the mess. ‘I came to tell you that Wilson is very ill.’ She gave him the directions to Wilson’s room and his room number. ‘I will be with him at least until he is seen by the doctor, who has been sent for.’

  ‘Does that mean you are not going to try to make me travel back to England today?’ he grumbled.

  Her brows rose at her brother’s lack of concern and her tone turned sharp. ‘No, we will not be leaving today.’ Wilson must be completely well before they travel home.

  To his credit, David looked chagrined. ‘Oh, that sounded churlish, did it not? Do I need to do anything to assist?’

  ‘No.’ She was about to add that Rhys was helping her, but she did not expect Rhys to stay.

  ‘Then I will go out, if you do not mind?’ The petulance returned to his voice. ‘I will not drink, if that is what you fear.’

  She ignored his infantile temperament. ‘I hope to see you at dinner.’

  ‘Dinner,’ he repeated. ‘If I must.’

  Her gaze swept the room again and landed back on him. ‘Do not forget. Dinner.’

  She walked back to Wilson’s room. She was probably keeping Rhys from whatever soldierly duties were required of him.

  She reached Wilson’s door and knocked but did not wait for permission to enter. ‘I am back,’ she said unnecessarily.

  He rose from the chair next to the bed. ‘As I see.’

  She walked closer to the bed. Closer to Rhys, she was struck by how tall he was. So often she remembered him as a boy, only two years older than she and not too much larger.

  ‘How is he?’ she asked, although she could see for herself Wilson’s breathing was laboured.

  ‘The same.’ Rhys’s voice softened a bit.

  As if catching himself, he stepped away from the chair and inclined his head for her to sit. Self-conscious again, she avoided looking at him when she lowered herself into the chair.

  ‘I am quite able to stay by his side now,’ she assured Rhys. ‘No need for you to stay.’

  His direct stare was his only reply.

  She held his gaze. ‘I am very grateful for the assistance you’ve provided for me, both last night and today
, but I will ask no more of you.’

  ‘I helped your brother and your servant.’

  Not her, he meant. Fair enough.

  He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his muscular chest. ‘I will stay for Wilson’s sake. He was always very kind to me. If I do not stay, and you have an urgent need for assistance, you will have to leave him. I will stay at least until the doctor arrives.’

  She turned back to Wilson. ‘So be it.’ He was right. Until they knew if Wilson could be left alone, it was better for them both to be there.

  Once being together would have felt as natural as breathing. Now she felt all the tension that crackled between them. Her heart pounded faster because of it. Her nerves were as taut as the highest note on a harp.

  Chapter Three

  David strode through the Parc de Bruxelles, oblivious of the carefully tended lawns, lush trees and classic statues he passed by. He supposed Helene wished him to hide away in his hotel room, but he had no intention of listening to her. How dare she come to fetch him home as if he were some recalcitrant schoolboy ditching his classes. He was eighteen, after all. A man.

  Or practically a man.

  If he were only a few years older, no one could stop him from purchasing a commission in the army. First his father; now Helene. All because he was the heir. Did they not understand that there was no glory in running an estate or listening to boring speeches in the Lords? He wanted to be doing something important! Like his schoolmate, William Lennox. William had been allowed to join the army. He had a cornetcy in the Royal Horse Guards and even had been an attaché for Wellington in Paris. How exciting was that? Most recently he’d been General Maitland’s aide-de-camp and he was David’s age.

  Of course, William was a younger son and had the advantage of his father, the Duke of Richmond, being a great friend of Wellington’s.

  The Duke and Duchess of Richmond had moved their family to Brussels earlier this year and David had written to his friend when he’d arrived in the city. William invited him to call. William would know the latest news from the Duke of Wellington. At least David would be that close to events he was certain would take place soon.

  A battle between Napoleon and Wellington!

  He made his way through the streets of Brussels. It seemed everywhere there were soldiers. Some in red coats, some blue or black. How unfair that he was dressed merely as a gentleman. He’d been exploring these streets for over a week and had learned where the Duke of Richmond lived on Rue de la Blanchisserie. He reached the door and sounded the knocker. The Duke’s butler answered the door and escorted him to a drawing room. A few minutes later William Lennox entered the room.

  William was not dressed in the finery of the Royal Horse Guards, though, but in clothes more suited for a day in the country. And he wore a patch over one eye.

  ‘Good God, William!’ David cried. ‘What happened to you?’ Had he been injured in a battle? Had he even fought in a battle? As far as David knew William had purchased his commission after the peace, but would not it be glorious to be injured fighting for his country?

  William walked towards him. ‘A riding injury. I consider it a trifle, but General Maitland won’t have me on his staff because of it.’

  What a dreadful business. ‘You are not his aide-de-camp?’

  ‘No, and my father refuses to speak to Wellington about it. Says His Grace despises such interference.’

  ‘But is there not to be a battle soon? Will you not be needed?’ Would not every man be needed?

  William frowned. ‘I hope old Boney will wait until my eye heals. It would the outside of enough to be cheated out of doing my duty.’ He shook his head as if driving out such thoughts and clapped David on the shoulder. ‘But what a surprise to see you in Brussels. Good to see you.’

  David grinned. ‘Is this not where every man wishes to be? I would not be anywhere else for the world.’ He did not want to mention that his sister had chased after him, although he’d probably wind up telling the whole story eventually. ‘I, too, am eager to see the great battle between Napoleon and Wellington. I am determined to at least be a witness to it.’

  ‘So you understand my sentiments. To defeat Napoleon is the opportunity of a lifetime.’ William gestured for David to sit. ‘But I am delighted you are here. I have been trapped here with my sisters and little brothers and am about to go mad. You are just the companion I need.’ He sighed, then smiled. ‘Shall I order us some tea?’

  David’s return smile was conspiratorial. ‘Tell you what I would like better. Let us get out of here. The taverns serve the best beer and some potatoes they call frites. Surely we can find some excitement here in Brussels.’

  William laughed. ‘I see why I am so glad to see you. Let me grab my hat and gloves and we’ll be off.’

  * * *

  Helene and Rhys waited over two excruciating hours, rarely speaking to each other. As the minutes ticked by, Helene’s mind raced with questions she wished to ask him about his life these past five years. One thing she would never ask him was if he’d understood why she broke their engagement.

  But she did not speak, and he asked nothing more about her than he’d discovered already.

  Finally a knock on Wilson’s door announced the arrival of the doctor.

  ‘I am Dr Carlier.’ The doctor spoke French, like most Belgians.

  Rhys responded before Helene could open her mouth. ‘This is Lady Helene Banes.’ He gestured to Helene. ‘And the patient is Mr Wilson, her servant.’

  The doctor looked curiously from Helene to Rhys.

  Rhys added, ‘I am Captain Landon.’ He paused. ‘A friend of the family.’

  Helene ignored his hint of sarcasm in the word friend and leaned down to Wilson, ‘The doctor is here to see you, Wilson.’

  ‘Oh, no doctor,’ the old man said. ‘No fuss.’

  ‘Nonsense. You need a doctor. You are ill.’ She addressed the doctor in French. ‘He started feeling poorly yesterday and when I checked on him this morning he was burning with fever.’

  Carlier shooed her away. ‘Sit up, monsieur,’ he said to Wilson, still in French.

  To her surprise, Wilson understood the instruction, although he struggled to sit in his weakened state. She’d not known he understood French.

  The doctor felt Wilson’s forehead, nodding as if he’d doubted her description. He leaned down and put his ear to Wilson’s chest, frowning as he listened.

  ‘Bad lungs.’ The doctor picked up the empty glass from the side table and held it under Wilson’s mouth. ‘Cough and spit into the glass.’

  Wilson obeyed.

  The doctor examined the sputum and placed the glass back on the table. He addressed Helene. ‘Your servant has an infection of the lungs.’ He took paper and pencil from his bag, wrote on it, and handed it to Helene. ‘Take this to an apothecary. Give it three times a day. It may help with the fever.’

  ‘Should I not make him drink? What do you recommend?’ She was accustomed to more recommendations from doctors. ‘Broth?’

  He appeared faintly annoyed at her question. ‘He should drink as much as you can make him drink. Broth or beer. Tea, if that is what you English like.’ He shook his finger at her. ‘He must not leave this room. We do not wish to spread this English fever throughout Brussels.’

  Helene straightened. ‘I have no intention of allowing him—’

  Dr Carlier interrupted her, his voice rising. ‘He may become more ill before he recovers. If he recovers. But he must not leave this room until he is free from fever for two days.’

  ‘He will need someone to attend him,’ Rhys broke in. ‘Can a nurse be hired?’

  Helene whipped around to face him. ‘I will tend him!’

  ‘No, Helene,’ Rhys countered. ‘You will not.’

  The doctor gave a weary sigh. ‘It is of no importance to me who tends to the
man. If you want a nurse, the hotel will find one for you.’ He closed his bag. ‘If he is not better in two days, I should be summoned. Otherwise, I must go. I have many patients to see.’ He extended his hand for payment.

  Before Helene could reach in her reticule, Rhys handed the man some coin. ‘Enough?’ Rhys asked.

  The doctor nodded and pocketed the money as he left, clearly glad to have no more to do with the English and an English fever.

  The door closed as Helene pulled her coins from her reticule. ‘Here, Rhys.’

  He held up a hand. ‘Do not insult me. I can afford to pay this for Wilson.’

  Her cheeks burned at his assumption. She’d meant no insult, only that Wilson was her servant and her responsibility. It was probably useless to explain that to him, though.

  Instead she lifted her chin. ‘I will care for Wilson, not a nurse. I will not leave him in the care of a stranger in a foreign land.’ Especially because too many Belgians seemed to have no taste for the English who’d suddenly flooded their city.

  Rhys scowled. ‘What can you know about nursing?’

  ‘I nursed my mother and father.’

  ‘With the support of your many servants, no doubt,’ he responded sarcastically.

  No, she’d kept the servants away as best as she could. Wilson had helped and Mrs Wood, the housekeeper. First her mother, then her father succumbed to a terrible fever and Helene had worked tirelessly, bathing them with cool cloths, spoon-feeding them broth. She’d spent a month tending to them, first one, then the other. She caught the fever, too, but she lived; they had not.

  Rhys continued. ‘Here you would be caring for Wilson alone. How would you summon help if you needed it?’

  Once she would have assumed he would help her.

  ‘I would manage,’ she said.

  Helene feared it was her fault Wilson was ill. She never should have allowed him to travel with her. Rhys’s disapproval merely increased her guilt. Oh, she supposed some wild, improbable part of her wished he would help her. Foolish notion. She could manage. She was used to managing hard tasks alone.